


tune out everyone else

by Graysworks



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Drabble, Hurt/Comfort, Jason doesn't remember shit and Tim is Done, M/M, References to Drugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-27 19:09:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13887270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Graysworks/pseuds/Graysworks
Summary: Tim patches up a splintered, amnesiac Jason after a bad run in with the local arsonistssounds like crack but... there are literally always emotions





	tune out everyone else

**Author's Note:**

> don't even know anymore

It takes Jason approximately fifteen minutes to decide that respectful silence can go to hell.  
  
"You don't have to take care of me."  
  
Tim doesn't pause where he's treating the scrapes over Jason's chest, the look in his eyes hard but not completely directed at him.  
  
Jason would still be lying if he said he wasn't intimidated.  
  
Tim tends to him a long minute more before answering, quiet, "I'm not leaving someone who just got a face full of construction debris to take care of _himself._ If you want to pick out your own splinters, you'll have to kick me out yourself."  
  
Jason drops his gaze and commends him. "Nice impasse." It's almost genuine.  
  
He doesn't press, for a while after that. Tim's face twists in concentration as he keeps to task, light flitting over his hair and painting it blue, dim and spotty through the dirty window behind them.  
  
It's grimy, but at least the rest of the house is functional; there's a couch to crash on for a good two hours a night, a kitchen adequate for rinsing blood off of tired hands, the parallel island topping it off with a place to sit and collect bacteria in silence, with any open wounds Jason's managed to catch that day.  
  
It's a dump, but nobody says efficiency has to be pretty. Jason's fairly certain Tim's standards died a long time ago when it came to this anyway.  
  
He takes the rag away and rounds the island, knocking a few empty water bottles and wrappers around the floor as he goes. Jason resists the urge to twist around, keep an eye on that limp and watch how the window light streams over the rest of him; then decides to throw caution to the wind, excusing the action in the name of concern. He might have caught the worst of it, but Tim isn't unscathed.  
  
And Jason's not blind. Even like this -especially like this- Tim is eye drawing, close enough that Jason can see the brush of his lashes against his cheek. His eyes have always been hypnotic, but inches away, steady with focus, it's impossible to look anywhere else.  
  
Though, his hands. They catch Jason's attention almost as much.  
  
"Do you want to keep bleeding?" Tim admonishes from the sink, not turning.  
  
Jason huffs out a laugh, muttering, "If it means I get to take a look at you, then yeah." When Tim glances over, suspicious, he covers. "That was a hell of a fight back there, kid. You got roughed up too."  
  
It's the truth. Two hours ferrying civilians out of a burning factory, coming face to face with the arsonists on the fourth floor- they barely made it out, and not without Jason losing consciousness a few times. The whole thing is extremely blurry, in retrospect.  
  
"I'm fine," Tim says, standing in front of Jason to dab at his collar.  
  
"Agree to disagree," Jason murmurs, eyeing the blue discoloration blooming on his throat, partially hidden by the high neck of his suit.  
  
Tim's face tightens, and Jason knows he should back off. He's pushing it, after waking up in the past hour, only vaguely remembering what had happened in the past _five_ , covered in scrapes- he's pushing, and Tim is like an open wound, bruising under the touch.  
  
But he's human. He's probably exhausted, _definitely_ hiding at least three big lacerations- and Jason's not standing for bullshit like that, especially when he's at fault here.  
  
He circles Tim's wrist, gives him a look that hopefully translates a silent plea, because he'll damned if the kid actually makes him _beg._  
  
"Let go," Tim says, flat. His arm tremors almost imperceptibly.  
  
Jason finds the motion telling, and draws him closer. "No."  
  
"I'll leave," He threatens, even as Jason's hands come up to his head, skimming, checking for blood.  
  
"No," Jason repeats, softer. "You won't." Tim's hair is rough under his fingers, dirty from the factory they'd fought in, dry from dust and the stale air of the safehouse. It's usually smooth, clean, but the distinction only serves to remind Jason of the duality of their lives. He curses the idle thought as it surfaces.  
  
"You don't get to decide for me," Tim insists in a mutter, jerking his head back. "You don't get to decide that you're not worth the worry either- don't give me that _look_ Jason, we've had this conversation too many times."  
  
He checks himself, breathing a long exhale, hoping it will quell the frustration. "This isn't about me Tim, I can see that you're hurt- just let me make sure you don't need fucking _stitches_ or something-"  
  
Tim's fist slams into the counter beside him, sudden and devastating, upsetting a box of bandages. "Why do you do this, Jason, why do you _insist_ on self-negligence, even when you're sitting right in front of me after taking a face full of debris and gas- can't you just let me _worry_ for once!"  
  
It's not a question, but the dam is broken and Jason's temper flares to life in the wake. "No, you know what? I can't let you worry about me when you're just as roughed up, _Tim_. Yeah, it all went to shit, but I'm okay and so what if I want to make sure you're not fucking _bleeding out_ -"  
  
He pauses, brain catching up with his ears.  
  
_Gas?_  
  
_Why did he say gas?_  
  
He's not sure, but he can't read the younger man's expression while his head is bowed, fist shaking where it presses against the counter. His hair falls over his eyes, probably streaking his brows with dust.  
  
"Tim," Jason tries- and tries to lift his chin up. He shakes his head vigorously. "Tim, what did you just say-"  
  
"It was ethylene," The words seem to slip out, quiet. "You got a face full of ethylene, and I- I had to calm you down. I knew you'd be pissed so- I didn't tell you."  
  
Jason's at a loss. He sits in silence for a minute, fixated on the sweep of Tim's hair, the curve of his neck where it's bent, cape bunched around his shoulders and making him look _small._  
  
He has to wonder what happened that he can't remember, to make Tim look that small.  
  
"Did I-" The thought lumps in his throat, tears claws down his chest because- he _couldn't._ "Did I hurt you?" He waits until Tim shakes his head to raise his hands again, pulling his face up this time. _"Tim."_  
  
"You didn't," Tim says, voice firm, but edged with something like regret. "You should have, but you didn't."  
  
Jason's mouth barely drifts open on a whisper. "What is that supposed to mean?"  
  
Tim just shakes his head. The message comes across loud and clear; _You don't want to know._  
  
He does.  
  
But he doesn't push anymore.  
  
Jason's still scraped and bruised raw, but Tim's done a good amount of damage control by now, so he manages to put off the pain and pull him in, careful of where he puts his hands. It's the best way he'll get to assess the injuries Tim hasn't let him see- hell, it's the best way he can _fix this._ Tim is one of the only people Jason initiates contact with on a regular basis; at this point it's become an indulgence, something a little less practical.  
  
Nobody says efficiency has to be pretty, but Jason figures the lines blur sometimes, with Tim.  
  
"Sorry," He mumbles, hands skimming up Tim's back, gauging any tenderness as subtly as he can.  
  
Tim just shudders through an exhale, head tucked into the crook of his neck. "It's fine." His arms trap Jason on the counter- probably wary of causing more chafing, but it's a secondary detail. Jason will take anything, at this point.  
  
He wastes a bit more time than usual, soothing Tim- and it's a strange thought, how the tables have turned on them both. The phrase an _eye for an eye_ surfaces, but he guesses it's not the most accurate analogy, and rules against putting a voice to it.  
  
He just starts working Tim's cape down gently, for a better look at the wounds he managed to detect.  
  
Tim finally gives in and lets him.

**Author's Note:**

> mistakes are mine because I banged this out in thirty minutes (rip)
> 
> i.e. ethylene isn't poisonous in gas form (I think??) bbbuuuuuuuuut you know


End file.
